


the dreadful need in the devotee

by hollow_dweller



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Always, Explicit Sexual Content, I'm not tagging individual kinks because this list would go forever, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Porn with Feelings, but it's safe to assume everything herein is offensive to both god and my ancestors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: Kinktober prompt fills of varying lengths and levels of intensity, all centered around Diarmute. Individual kinks and other warnings in chapter notes.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 47
Kudos: 37





	1. gags

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the first of ~~hopefully~~ 31 slutty, slutty days of diarmute. i am excited to share these with you all! 
> 
> title from the king of ~artistique~ horniness himself, Hozier, and his song "Talk" 
> 
> up first, a short little appetizer of a prompt fill for Day 1, gags. no other real warnings except semi-public sex.

Diarmuid presses a hand to his mouth, trying to muffle the involuntary whines spilling from his throat. It is late, his brothers having long since retired to their cells, but they are in the refectory and anyone might come by to investigate an out-of-place noise, if they are not careful. 

David’s hips flex, rough and hard and perfect, abruptly bringing Diarmuid’s attention back to the hot slide of David within him. His entire body spasms, wracked by the fierce rush of pleasure the motion evokes. His hand falls away from his mouth to grasp at the rough-hewn wood of the table, a sharp cry escaping him before he can think to stop it. 

David slows, then, and another, more pitiful, whine escapes Diarmuid. He does not wish for David to stop; when they are entwined like this, and the strength of his desire for David has robbed him of his sense entirely, he sometimes believes that he would be happy for the rest of his days if only David were to remain inside of him. 

David rubs a soothing hand up his thigh, where he has been gripping him firmly, and uses the other to reach over to Diarmuid’s abandoned pile of garments. Diarmuid turns his head to follow the motion, attempting to focus a mind made hazy with pleasure, and sees that David has extracted his hose from the tangle of clothing. 

David bunches it up, then holds it out toward Diarmuid. There is something… hesitant, but intense, in his gaze, like a smoking piece of tinder about to catch flame. 

It takes Diarmuid a moment to read his intent, but when he does, something fierce and hot ripples under his skin. Meeting David’s gaze, he opens his mouth. 

There is a beat of hesitation, then David slides the wad of fabric into his mouth. Reflexively he bites, teeth sinking into the soft fabric, the bulk of it enough that he can feel a faint stretch in his jaw. 

He feels the brief, gentle brush of David’s fingers against his cheek, then they trail downward, the hand finally coming to rest at the base of his neck, broad palm spread over his collarbone. He lets it rest there, not squeezing, but the weight and warmth of it leaving Diarmuid feeling pinned all the same. 

He whines again, voice now thoroughly muffled by cloth, and he closes his eyes, head tilting back against the table. 

David lets out a low, rumbling noise that sounds almost like an amused chuckle, and begins moving his body against Diarmuid’s once again. 


	2. daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time David fucks Diarmuid is like the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's offering: what i think might be the only daddy kink written for this fandom? be the change and all that, i suppose. set in a modern au. no warnings, and the daddy kink is really pretty tame, tbh

Every time David fucks Diarmuid is like the first time. 

The fierce rush of pleasure up his spine, the tight heat of Diarmuid's body gripping his cock, the slight sense of unreality to it all, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he gets to touch Diarmuid like this, see Diarmuid like this, love Diarmuid like this- 

It never quite settles on him, truly, that Diarmuid isn't someone he dreamed up all those years ago, stuck in a land of dust and blood, killing innocent people for god knows what purpose. That he's real, and moreover, he's chosen to share his body and life, his heart, with David, of all people. 

So every moment he touches Diarmuid feels brand new, awe-inspiring and overwhelming and incredibly, incredibly cherished. 

And Diarmud. Well. Diarmuid still finds ways to surprise him. 

They're up against a wall in David's shoebox of an apartment, Diarmuid naked, David with his shirt unbuttoned but not off, jeans and boxers pushed down around his knees. They could move this to the bed- there's nothing stopping them, no obligations to meet, nobody around to interrupt- or even the couch, but there is something about having Diarmuid's smaller body trapped between David's and the wall, legs around his waist, relying entirely on David's strength to keep from falling, that is thrilling for David. 

He's fuckìng him slowly, each thrust containing enough force that Diarmuid's back slides up the wall with the motion. Diarmuid is letting out these little hitching gasps with each one, past the point of having been able to form coherent sentences. His fingers on one hand dig into the thick muscles of David's shoulders, hard enough that he'll have bruises. His other is buried in David's hair, pulling him forward so that the foreheads remain pressed together as their bodies rock in tandem. 

"Ah-  _ ah!  _ Please… David…  _ please- _ " 

Diarmuid's voice is strained, words desperate enough that it makes David want to bite them from his mouth. He tilts their heads so he can kiss him, muffling- but not extinguishing- the noises he is making. 

When they part, Diarmuid lets his head fall back against the wall, and David takes the opportunity to trail wet, sucking kisses down his throat, licking the salt of his sweat from his skin. 

He gives another particularly deep thrust, teeth sinking lightly into the place where his neck meets his shoulder, and a cry falls out of Diarmuid's mouth, body spasming-  _ "Ah- please- Daddy!" _

The word hits David like a mallet hits metal, deep and reverberating. His mind whites out, blood rushing in his ears like static, and his orgasm rips through him before he can stop it- before he can even register that it's coming. 

He can feel Diarmuid clenching around him, space between their bodies suddenly slick as he follows David over the edge, untouched by anything except the rub of his cock against David's stomach. 

For a moment they just stand there, breathing heavily, coming back down to earth. Then David pulls away, just enough so that he can look at Diarmuid's face. 

It is very, very red, and not with the usual post-orgasmic flush that David has relished pulling out of him on so many other occasions. He's biting his lip, forehead wrinkled in a slight frown, eyes averted. 

"I'm… sorry, that just… it's just-" 

David leans in to cut him off with a kiss. Diarmuid, despite his embarrassment, melts into it, yielding to David's touch as he always does. 

When they part, after several long moments, the flush has died down somewhat. The look in his eyes is still faintly embarrassed- shy about his desires- but not miserably so. 

David smooths a lock of hair back from his face, and smiles. Slowly, tentatively, an answering smile begins to spread across Diarmuid's face. Then he pulls David in for another kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all enjoyed! every comment is cherished and reread approximately a million times, so please feel free to drop your thoughts below if you are so inclined! 
> 
> if you wanna, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/), i like friends!


	3. hickeys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, they are leaving. Tomorrow they are leaving, set for two entirely different destinations for the first time in five years, with no idea as to when they will be reunited. 
> 
> And David will not even _look_ at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is…. the angstiest possible interpretation of the prompt “hickeys” but oh well. 
> 
> hand-wavey post-canon AU. idk that the politics here make a lick of sense but uuuuhhh i hope the porn makes up for it

The plan that his brothers at St. John’s Priory eventually settle on makes good sense, Diarmuid is aware. 

Their continued presence at the hospital grows more dangerous by the day, with word of Raymond de Merville’s death spreading rapidly throughout the city. The corresponding increase in Norman patrols on the streets of Waterford has rendered it inadvisable for David or Diarmuid to even take a stroll out in the garden, for fear that they might be seen. The relative grace they have enjoyed so far has only been afforded to them because no word has yet spread of the exact circumstances of Sir Raymond’s death- likely due to the Baron attempting to prevent word of his son’s treachery against the Church from getting out as well.

They cannot expect that peace to last. 

It is truly the most sensible course of action then, for the two of them to separate. They make too recognizable a pair, together- the novice monk and a mute that carries himself with a warrior’s air. It is not safe for them to return to Kilmannan, nor can they remain in Waterford. 

And of course, news of the Relic’s fate, the Cistercian’s death, and- perhaps most imperative of all- the accelerating hostility of the Norman army against the Church must be delivered to Rome. 

Diarmuid will be granted clemency, it is almost certain- the fact of his continued survival is evidence enough that God does not condemn his actions- but they can do nothing to protect David until the entire story is laid at Pope Innocent’s feet. Diarmuid is therefore to travel with a retinue to Rome- and he does struggle to smother a half-hysterical laugh, when he hears  _ that _ \- to inform his Holiness of what has transpired. David is to be sent to a remote monastery in the North, far from de Merville’s reach, where he may bide his time until it is safe for him and Diarmuid to be reunited. 

And it  _ will _ eventually be safe again, the Father Abbot had assured Diarmuid, a gentle hand on his shoulder and a terrible kindness in his eyes. 

“Remember your scripture, my son,” he had said, voice soft and weighted with understanding. “And have faith.”

Diarmuid, unable to speak beyond the sudden tightness in his throat, had simply nodded. 

_ Then the Lord your God will restore your fortunes, and have compassion on you, and gather you again from all the nations where he scattered you. _

He could only pray that it would be so.

* * *

That night, he goes to David’s room. 

They had been provided separate rooms- Diarmuid a cell with the other novice monks living at the priory, David a private room in the medical ward, where a healer may be readily available to him, should anything go amiss during his recovery. They had not bothered to move him, once he was fully healed. There was simply no point; his recovery meant that it was time for them to finally depart. 

When they had first arrived, Diarmuid had barely left David's side, at first remaining prostrate in the corner while the healers worked desperately to save his friend, prayers for mercy spilling from his lips like water from an overflowing cup. When David had finally stabilized, the healers at last turning to Diarmuid with hope in their expressions, he had moved only to fold himself over the edge of David’s pallet, hands clasped tightly in prayer, resting inches from his deeply-sleeping body. 

He had been there to help David through every stage of his convalescence- changing the dressings on his wounds, lifting bowls of hot broth to his lips when he was still too weak to do it for himself, supporting his weight as he took slow, careful turns about the room, trying to rebuild strength and stamina.

It is difficult to tell when you are being shut out by a man who does not speak, but Diarmuid has known David for a very long time. 

He had assumed that with the pain of his wounds, the exhaustion of recovery, the horrific memories of the events that had led to them being here- well, it made sense, that David was… different. More reserved in his affection, less willing to casually touch Diarmuid, tensing whenever Diarmuid’s hands brushed his skin while changing his bandages, or his arm wrapped around his waist to steady him. 

But beyond just the physical, there is a distinct sense of… inattention, to Diarmuid’s presence, when they are together. Averting his gaze when Diarmuid speaks, turning over onto his side to face away when Diarmuid settles onto the pallet beside him. Refusing Diarmuid’s offers to remain with him when night falls, barely blinking in acknowledgement of Diarmuid’s reluctant goodbyes. 

And now, they are leaving. Tomorrow they are leaving, set for two entirely different destinations for the first time in five years, with no idea as to when they will be reunited. 

And David will not even  _ look _ at him. 

So he goes to his room. 

David is sitting on his pallet, leather jerkin removed, shirt unlaced but still on, boots set neatly by the door. He glances up when Diarmuid enters, the look in his eyes remote, cold in a way Diarmuid has become accustomed to, these last few weeks. 

In a way he had never seen, before they came to this place. 

Diarmuid makes sure the door is shut firmly behind him, taking a moment as he does to press his forehead against the rough wood, breathing deeply. Then he turns, to find David with his head bowed, gazing distantly at the floor. 

“I am sorry to intrude,” he starts, then pauses. David looks up at him, briefly, then back down at his hands. 

“Only, I wanted to… I wanted to talk to you, before tomorrow.” He takes a few steps toward David, stopping when he is only a few paces away. David’s eyes remain turned resolutely downward. 

He takes another fortifying breath. He wants to get on his knees, to beg David to look at him, to touch him, to hold his face in his palms and kiss him until the looming specter of tomorrow’s separation falls away. 

“Please forgive me,” he says instead. 

David’s head jerks up, the force of his incredulity breaking through his mask, and Diarmuid wants to  _ cry _ because it is not the warmth and care and devotion that he is used to but at least it is something, some remnant of _his_ David peeking through the statue of a man he has been tending to these past few weeks. 

Now that he has started, he cannot seem to stop himself, words bubbling up from the hard, tight knot of misery he has been carrying in his breast. “I am sorry, I am sorry, I know it is terrifically selfish of me to ask another thing of you after you have done so much for me already, but I cannot- I cannot- whatever I have done- I need to know- before tomorrow-”

He stops, pulling in a great, gasping breath, trying to get himself under control. When he looks at David through the curtain of hair that has fallen into his eyes, it is to find him staring, wide-eyed, as though Diarmuid has struck him. 

He licks his lips and tastes salt on his tongue. 

“I do not want to leave tomorrow without having mended this between us,” he continues, voice small and tremulous. “So I am begging for your forgiveness, if you can bear to grant me one last favour.” 

He ducks his head again, blinking hard at the ground. Knowing he should look up to read David’s reaction, but finding it impossible. 

Suddenly, broad, warm hands touch his face, fingers brushing over his cheeks, before coming to rest cupped around his jaw, tilting his head up to meet David’s eyes. 

They are unbearably soft, and Diarmuid feels a fresh wave of hot tears slide down his face. 

“I am sorry,” he says again, voice barely audible. 

David shakes his head, then lifts one hand to touch himself on the chest. Diarmuid frowns. 

“I am not upset with you,” he says. “You must know that.”

David shakes his head again, this time releasing Diarmuid entirely- and he has to bite back a pathetic whine, at that- first touching his belly, just above his now-healed stomach wound, then his hip. Finally, he takes Diarmuid’s hands in his own, pressing a soft kiss first to the palm of one, then the other, and shakes his head once more. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ . 

Diarmuid cannot stop himself, the hard, tight knot in his chest cracking open into something raw and painful and yet somehow relieved, because it is not right that David should fear his censure so but at least it is not that he has tired of him, or is angry with him, or blames him-

He throws his arms around David’s neck, tugging him down at last into a kiss, rough and desperate and perfect. David’s arms come up immediately around him, pulling him tight to that firm, broad chest, and he may be crying again but it does not  _ matter _ . 

“It is alright,” he whispers fervently against his lips, unable to bear the thought of pulling away enough to speak clearly. “You have to know, you have done nothing wrong.”

David tries to pull away, but Diarmuid clings, tugging him closer, kissing him deeper. When they part, he pulls away only enough so that he can look him directly in the eye. 

“If God did not punish me for desecrating the relic, he will not punish you for protecting it,” he says, as firmly as he can muster. 

David shakes his head, a lingering sense of hopelessness remaining in his expression, but he pulls Diarmuid back in for another kiss before he can say anything more. Diarmuid wants to protest, to force David to truly hear him, but he melts at the sensation of David’s beard against his cheeks, his hands clutching at his waist. 

They do not have much time, regardless. Besides, there are some truths that can be spoken without words, and Diarmuid thinks that perhaps this is one of them.

He reaches into his pocket for the bottle of oil he had slipped in there earlier this evening. Then he presses it into one of David’s hands, whining a little reflexively when David breaks the kiss to look at what he has given him. 

He darts his eyes up, the look in them distinctly amused, despite everything. 

Diarmuid flushes. “I missed you,” he mutters, a little defensive. Then: “I- I will miss you.” 

David’s gaze softens. He takes the bottle with a gentle hand, the other coming up to cradle the back of Diarmuid’s head. He presses their foreheads together, briefly, then begins to nudge Diarmuid toward the pallet. Diarmuid goes, nerves and anticipation fluttering in his belly. 

They had not done this often, before, rarely having the time for more than a few stolen moments together, enough to find their pleasure in hands and mouths but seldom in this. This is messy, and time consuming, and does not always work out when they do try, but Diarmuid… he  _ wants _ . 

He wants to feel the intimacy of David inside him, hot and hard just the right edge of unyielding, the satisfaction of David’s girth stretching his body to its limits, the safety of his body covering Diarmuid’s. 

He wants to feel whole again, just once, before they part. 

He lowers himself onto the pallet, watching as David sheds first shirt, then breaches, revealing swathes of the powerful body that Diarmuid knows so well. He has lost some muscle tone, during his weeks of healing, but he is still pleasingly solid, the breadth of his shoulders easily dwarfing Diarmuid’s, the strength in his legs and arms evident. 

The scars, of course, are familiar. The angry red gash across his belly, vivid even against his tan skin, is not. 

Diarmuid makes a noise in the back of his throat, something like a whine, and reaches for David, urging him without words to step forward. He raises himself to his knees, placing his hands on David’s hips, and leans in, pressing his lips softly to the inflamed skin above the scar. 

David sucks in a breath, short and hissing, like his teeth are clenched, and settles his hands carefully in Diarmuid’s hair. 

Diarmuid trails soft, slow kisses along the scar, careful not to apply too much pressure to the recently-formed skin, delicate and fresh as it is. He lets his lips part, slightly, his tongue flicking out to taste, and feels the hardness of David’s cock twitch against his chest. 

The hands tighten in his hair, slightly, and then David is pulling him away. Diarmuid looks up and shivers at the naked desire he finds written across his face, blazing in his eyes. David reaches down to tug at the fabric on his shoulders and Diarmuid leans back, allowing him to pull the garment over his head. Then he scrambles back, giving David room to lower himself to the pallet, body hovering just over Diarmuid’s. 

Diarmuid reaches for him, and David obliges. 

He loses track of the proceedings, overwhelmed with the sensation of skin against skin, David’s mouth once more on his, hands rough and calloused and always so incredibly gentle, skimming his body- down his ribs, along his thigh, skirting around the edge of the thatch of hair between his legs, then moving farther back. At some point he slicks his fingers- when, Diarmuid is not entirely certain- and then they are inside him, first one, then another, so thick and foreign, yet familiar all the same. 

It takes only minutes before Diarmuid is writhing, pressing his heels into the pallet, clutching at David’s shoulders and panting helplessly into his mouth. 

Then the fingers are gone, Diarmuid bucking his hips and groaning in frustration at the empty feeling they leave behind, and then-  _ oh _ , then. 

David is pressing into him, so much larger than his fingers. Diarmuid feels pinned, split open, utterly consumed by the sensation of David’s body, above and inside him, all-encompassing.

David comes to rest, bodies pressed together, cock fully sheathed inside Diarmuid’s body. Diarmuid can feel it radiating up through his core, unfurling down his limbs- something more profound than simple pleasure. 

David ducks his head, instinctively, to nuzzle Diarmuid’s throat, lips brushing the skin there. Diarmuid moans, trembling in anticipation, tilting his head to the side to give him better access. 

David, inexplicably, stiffens and begins to draw away. 

Diarmuid looks back at him, blinking in surprise. 

He is staring at Diarmuid’s neck, eyes wide and slightly glazed over, as though he is not entirely present. Diarmuid has seen that look on his face before- it is the one he gets when he has fallen into a memory. 

He feels his heart ache in his breast, to see that look on his face now, and feels the surging, protective desire to wipe it away like chalk from slate, to erase the memory of violence haunting David’s mind with nothing but the sheer force of his own love for this man who has given everything, who almost  _ died _ , to protect him. 

He knows it does not work like that, that only time and God’s grace can ease this particular suffering.  That does not mean that for now, in this small amount of time they have remaining to them, he cannot  _ try _ . 

Diarmuid threads his fingers through David's thick hair, tips his own head back, and presses David's face into his bared throat. 

"It is alright," Diarmuid says, voice hushed. "I trust you, David,  _ please _ ."

There is a long, tense moment, spinning out like thread on a loom, where Diarmuid is afraid David is about to pull away entirely. 

Then, he feels a warm wash of breath fan over his throat, and the slight pressure of teeth set against the delicate skin of his throat. 

He moans again, reflexive and encouraging, and tightens his hands in David’s hair, gasping as he bites down and begins to suck.  At the same time, he moves, thrusting into Diarmuid, rocking their bodies together with just the right amount of force, slow and deep and powerful. His lips slide along Diarmuid’s collarbone, trailing bites and sucking kisses as he goes, sure to leave bruises that will remain with him for days. 

That is another thing they had not done often, or intentionally, before. Marks had been too risky, too blatant. Diarmuid is not naïve enough to believe they had kept the changing nature of their relationship from his brothers, or at least not all of them, but as long as they remained discreet none saw fit to scold or try to separate them. 

Now, however, he wants the marks, the reminder, the tangible evidence of David’s love and desire on his skin. Wants to be able to press his fingers into them under his clothes and feel the ache, and remember this, just this: the two of them, bound together, flesh and spirit and fate. Wants to trust that no matter how far they travel from one another, God will gather their scattered pieces and bring them together once more. 

He cries out at a particularly forceful thrust, feeling the drag of David’s cock within him radiating down to his bones. He can feel David’s satisfied rumble against his skin as he thrusts again, and again, every movement eliciting another flare of heat in his gut. Tears prick at his eyes and sweat beads at his brow, under his arms, slicking the space between their bodies. 

He slides his hands down David’s back to clutch at his hips, encouraging him to move faster, thrust harder. David obliges, wedging a hand in between their bodies to grasp at Diarmuid’s cock as he does. At the same time, he digs his teeth into the skin at the juncture of Diarmuid’s neck and shoulder, sucking with a ferocity that would be vicious if it were not so wonderful. 

That is what does it, the warring sensations of sudden pain and overwhelming, cresting waves of pleasure rolling through him. His orgasm crashes over him, sudden and unexpected. Distantly, he feels David shudder, movement of his hips erratic as he comes, his release a flood of warmth deep within Diarmuid's body. 

They lay there, panting in tandem, David mouthing gently at Diarmuid’s skin while Diarmuid runs his hands up and down David’s back, basking in the comfort of each other’s bodies. 

Finally, after several long moments, David pulls away, dark eyes meeting Diarmuid’s. The emotion there is hard to parse- not because it is closed away, hidden from him, as has been the case for the last few weeks. Rather it is profound, complicated, a roiling mess of wonder and relief and fear and loss and love. Diarmuid smiles, then pulls David in for another kiss, letting it say all the things he cannot put to words.

* * *

The next day, Diarmuid stands at the gates to the priory, hand resting at the base of his own throat, feeling the soft ache of the bruises blooming on his skin, hidden by his robe and scapula. He watches the broad set of David’s shoulders, the steadiness of his gait, the straight line of his back, until he and the small group of travelers accompanying him are nothing but specks in the distance, disappearing behind the horizon line. 

Then he takes a deep breath, and goes to ready himself for his own journey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there it is! please feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments, i'd love to hear from you! 
> 
> also, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/)


	4. orgasm denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But that is the crux of it- Diarmuid wants to give David everything of himself, even- especially- those things that David is too hesitant to ask him for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this is a thematic mess but it’s porn so….. that’s fine, i hope? no real warnings, a hefty dose of body worship, Soft Dom Diarmuid, and some bottom Mute, as an extra treat. hand-wavey post canon au

There is very little Diarmuid finds that he could deny David, when it comes down to it. 

Of course, this is something he knows- has known- for some time. That yes, he has devoted his life to serving Christ, to the Church, to the protection of the Relic, but somewhere in between now and finding David washed up on the shore of Kilmannan, all those years ago, his vision of his life spent in service of the Church became irrevocably tied to a life spent with David at his side. 

It is no surprise, really, that when the time came for him to choose between the Relic and his friend, he did not hesitate in the course of deciding which to throw aside. God may decide to do what he will with Diarmuid’s immortal soul, but for now, in the earthly realm, he has his quiet life with David, and he finds that he cannot bring himself to regret it. 

David enters the cabin accompanied by a gust of frigid air, a light smattering of raindrops. It is a chilly night, edging into winter, and it has been raining all day- the steady drizzle of the morning’s grey dawn worsening and worsening, until now the early evening is as dark as midnight, and there is little either of them can accomplish by way of chores. 

David had gone out to ensure the livestock were well-situated in their covered pens, out of the sleet and wind, and even his short time outside- less than a quarter of an hour- has left him soaked through to the bone. 

Diarmuid leaps up from where he has been tending the fire, and hurries over to David, a thick length of woven cloth in hand. David sheds his sodden cloak and Diarmuid takes it, handing him the cloth, and moves to hang it near the fire so that the heat may do some of the work of drying the fabric. 

When he returns to David’s side he is rubbing the cloth over his head, drying his hair as much as possible, and he puts up with Diarmuid’s fussing with an air of resigned fondness. 

Diarmuid ushers him over to a chair in a spot near the fire, pushing him down into the seat, near enough that he can feel the heat on his back- a touch too warm, truthfully, given that he has not been traipsing around outside- but it is not his own comfort he is overly concerned with. 

He kneels, unlacing and pulling off David’s boots, setting them near the hearth, and rubs his calves, hissing sympathetically at the chilled skin he finds. David hisses as well, but it does not sound uncomfortable- there is an odd note chasing it, something like a hum of satisfaction, and it makes Diarmuid look up from his spot between David’s legs. 

The gaze that meets his is warm, and unmistakably fond, but tinged with something else as well- hunger, sharp and familiar, as he traces his eyes over the lines of Diarmuid’s body. 

He is cognizant, suddenly, of the picture he must paint- backlit by the fire, barefoot, in nothing but loose braies and an unlaced shirt. Before David had gone outside they had spent the day doing mending, cleaning- tasks that did not require much in the way of physical labour, and as such Diarmuid had never quite managed to get fully dressed. 

He shivers, and David smiles. His hand comes up to touch Diarmuid’s cheek, and reflexively Diarmuid turns into it, nuzzling his palm and pressing a light kiss to it. 

This is another thing he finds himself unable to deny David. 

Not that it had taken much coaxing, the first time they had fallen together- in fact, it had been… mostly Diarmuid’s impetus that had spurred that change in their relationship, David too cautious to take the step himself, for fear that he would be imposing his desires onto Diarmuid. 

But that is the crux of it- Diarmuid  _ wants _ to give David everything of himself, even- especially- those things that David is too hesitant to ask him for. 

“Stay here,” he says, feeling a touch playful and letting it bleed into his tone, softening the edges of the order. David’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners and he nods, expression otherwise solemn. 

Diarmuid is quick, grabbing the oil they use for this purpose from the cupboard in their bedroom, returning swiftly, eager. 

When he returns, it is to find that David has only settled further into the chair, legs slightly spread, creating just the perfect amount of space for Diarmuid to kneel between them. 

He does, setting the bottle off to the side for now, and settles his hands on the broad, firm planes of David’s thighs. Then he raises himself up as David leans down, meeting for a sweet, slow kiss. 

Diarmuid feels as though, if it were not for their daily obligations- tending the herds, and the garden, doing the mending, prayer and study- he could happily spend all his waking hours kissing David. Those soft lips beneath his own, beard just the right edge of rough on his cheeks and jaw, body warm and firm beneath his hands- there is almost nothing else he would prefer to while away the hours doing. 

Almost. 

He pulls away, hands running up David’s legs to reach the lacing on his breeches, skimming around the hard, obvious bulge in the front of them, smiling a little as David shifts in his seat. Diarmuid has something specific in mind this evening, and now is not yet the time. 

He leans up for another kiss, brief, then says, “Your shirt is still wet, my friend. You should remove it.” 

David gives him a look that tells him he knows exactly what he is doing, but obliges nonetheless. As he does, Diarmuid goes to work unlacing his breeches, gently peeling the fabric from David’s skin and tugging it down his thighs. 

David lifts his hips so that Diarmuid can remove the garment, and then he is naked. Diarmuid allows himself a moment to take in the sight- all that hard, powerful muscle on display, the smattering of hair across the chest, narrowing down in to a dark line that leads to his groin, and-

His cock, so thick and long, already slightly glossy at the tip with precome, hardening even further under Diarmuid’s eager gaze. 

Diarmuid bites his lip to hold back the anticipatory grin that wants to spread itself across his face. He reaches up with one hand, keeping the other on David’s thigh, thumb rubbing circles into the skin, and traces a scar on David’s chest with his fingers. 

He loves every part of David- wholly, unconditionally- but he especially loves these scars. 

Of course, he does not love that David has them- of course not. Diarmuid would give up almost anything if it meant that he could somehow unwind the damage, the violence, that David has endured. It is a burden he would gladly, unhesitatingly take up himself if he possibly could, for all that he knows that David would hate the idea. 

What he loves is this, the tangible evidence that despite everything that David has been faced with, despite the war and the pain and the unimaginable sacrifices he has made, he is here, with Diarmuid, in their little home on the coast, in this quiet, peaceful life they have built for themselves. That despite everything, he has made it here, to Diarmuid, to  _ be _ Diarmuid’s. 

He leans in, letting his lips trail behind his fingers, mapping the broad chest in front of him with lips and tongue and fingertips. Across a pectoral, pausing to mouth briefly at the nipple, enjoying the way the flesh pebbles under his tongue, the way David shudders, trying to keep control of the movement, trying to keep still. 

By the time Diarmuid pulls away, David is shifting restlessly, hands gripping tightly to the arms of the chair. His eyes, when Diarmuid glances up to check, are blazing in his face, lips bitten red, as though he has been physically preventing himself from making noise. 

David is always like this, so careful, so controlled. Always conscious of their relative strength, fearful of asking for too much or going too far, leaving every step in Diarmuid’s hands. 

Diarmuid relishes the opportunity to break that control. 

He leans up again for another kiss, eager and deep, smiling into it when David’s mouth parts, an inaudible gasp, as his hand trails down to grasp his cock. 

He strokes, root to tip, not breaking the kiss, devouring the groan of satisfaction that spills from David’s mouth into his own. David jerks a little when he palms at the head, spreading the sticky precome around, thumb brushing along the sensitive ridge just below the tip, then once more wrapping his fingers around David’s girth and stroking down to the base. 

He keeps at it, slow, firm strokes and deep, lingering kisses, enjoying the weight and heat in one palm, the shifting of muscles under his other, as David grows more and more tense. Diarmuid lets him, allowing the tension to draw out, taught and quivering like a bowstring, waiting for that distinctive twitch to the flesh under his fingers that tells him David is close-

And stops, tightening his hand firmly at the base. 

David bites down on Diarmuid’s lip, involuntary, then whines, half apologetic, half protesting. The wooden arms of the chair creak under the force of his grip. When Diarmuid darts his eyes down, he sees that David’s knuckles are white. 

He kisses him again, then nuzzles along his cheek, his jaw, before pulling away entirely and sitting back on his haunches, bringing him to eye level with David’s cock. 

David whines again, and Diarmuid pauses, looking at him carefully. There is something a little wild and desperate in David’s eyes, just this side of pleading. Diarmuid lets go of his thigh and reaches up to rest his palm on David’s flushed cheek. The skin is warm beneath his touch. 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, making sure his voice is soft and even, neither accusatory nor encouraging. This would not be the first time that one or the other of them halted activities that they usually enjoyed, due to exhaustion or simple whim, and he wants to ensure that David is not influenced by his own desires if this is not what he wants. 

David, however, does not hesitate to nod, before turning his face into Diarmuid’s hand and placing a kiss on his palm. Permissive. 

Diarmuid smiles, and keeps going. 

He releases David’s face and cock, then, and picks up the abandoned bottle of oil, pulling out the stopper and pouring some onto his hands. Then he sets the bottle aside again, skimming his fingertips up David’s thighs, admiring the light, shiny tracks they leave on the skin, catching the light of the fire. 

He pauses to rub at the soft skin of David’s sack, still tight and drawn up, close even after having several moments to cool down. Then he grips David fully once again, resuming his stroking, and slides his fingers back to brush at David’s hole. 

He works one finger in gently, careful, as he strokes David’s cock, leaning in so he can place soft, wet kisses to the tip as he does. David is not often in the mood for this, nor is Diarmuid- their arrangement is usually the other way around, and they are both more than satisfied that that. 

But Diarmuid has a goal in mind, and David opens so sweetly for him. 

One finger, then two, and David’s cock is leaking precome, thick and slightly bitter against Diarmuid’s tongue as he laps it up. He crooks his fingers, searching, and David grunts, hips thrusting forward, erratic enough that his cock misses Diarmuid’s mouth, smearing precome and saliva along his lips and cheek. 

Diarmuid tightens his grip on the base of David’s cock again, looking up at David through his lashes- an image he knows David particularly enjoys. Sure enough, David lets out a heavy breath, frustrated and amused at once, but nods contritely. 

Diarmuid smirks, leaning back in to resume the light, teasing licks to the head of David’s cock, down the shaft, keeping his hand still this time and firmly circling the base. 

As he does, he pumps his fingers in and out slowly, angled just so, relishing the aborted shifting of David’s hips as each stroke rubs against the spot inside him that Diarmuid knows well, from personal experience, is sure to elicit deep, melting waves of pleasure. 

He loses himself in it, the tight heat of David’s body clenching around his fingers, the taste of him on his tongue, the little twitches and cut-off whines and faintly trembling muscles, all those signs that David is hanging, suspended, on the razor’s edge of pleasure. 

Diarmuid looks up again, to see David, head tilted back, face thrown into sharp relief by the flickering light of the fire, twisted in pleasure. His knees draw together, squeezing Diarmuid’s body between them, bracketed by those strong thighs, but otherwise keeping as still as is possible, awash in sensation as he is. 

A surge of pleased satisfaction rushes through Diarmuid at the sight, deeper than the physical. The thought is heady: David, so eager to please him in all things but especially this, controlling the force of his own desire at nothing more than a look from Diarmuid. 

In a single motion, one that had taken him months of not-unpleasant practice to master, he takes David’s cock into his mouth, right down down to the base, until his nose is buried in the curls there and the head hits the back of his throat. At the same time, he crooks his fingers again, pressing firmly within David, and releases his grip on his cock, sliding down to rub at David’s sack. 

There is the sound of a cut-off yell from above him, David’s hips thrusting forward again, and then Diarmuid’s mouth is flooded with bitter warmth as David’s release hits him, cock twitching, body shaking. Somewhere in the background Diarmuid hears a cracking noise, and it takes him a moment to place it- it is the sound of the arms of the chair coming free from their joints, pulled out of place by the force of David’s grip. 

It is that thought that does it, the knowledge that he has driven David so far as to make him utterly lose control of his strength, and Diarmuid comes, untouched. 

By the time he comes back to himself, aftershocks of pleasure shuddering through his body, David has finished as well and is pawing clumsily at Diarmuid’s face, patting at his hair. Diarmuid pulls away from David’s spent cock, swallowing as he does, and clambers up onto David’s lap, throwing his arms around his neck. David clutches him close, arms wrapped firmly around his waist, and pulls him in for another deep, lingering kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> diarmuid wants david to break _him_ like that chair ok bye
> 
> (i live for comments so please do not hesitate to share your thoughts below!)
> 
> (come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/), i like friends!)


	5. cross dressing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this now because it's done and i wanted to get _something_ up, even though technically it's a prompt from later in the month. post-canon au! no warnings because i… never actually get to the sex. look out for part two in an upcoming chapter! 
> 
> also, be forewarned that i did only a cursory search into medieval ireland's usual garb for common-born women, so if it's wildly wrong i apologize. i did absolutely no research into methods of sea travel for the time period, so if that's not wrong i would honestly be shocked.

It had seemed like the most sensible course of action, at the time. 

They had set off for Waterford after weeks of convalescing in the Captain’s home village, enjoying hospitality and kindness the likes of which David had been sure had been eradicated from this earth. The Captain, having retained his brusque demeanor through their whole stay, yet warily attendant all the same, had pointed out that they would need to find a way to disguise themselves, and had even- albeit indirectly- suggested a manner of doing so. 

Diarmuid’s robe and scapular had been left behind, to be burned alongside David’s old, bloodied tunic and breeches. Diarmuid had briskly insisted that he could do it himself, before they left, but the Captain had sent him away with a gruff admonishment to tend to some actual useful chores, if he was so eager to make a nuisance of himself before finally leaving them in peace. David had spared him only the barest of nods of gratitude before following Diarmuid, and had sat beside him for the long, contemplative hours that had followed, body pressed to body, as Diarmuid had worried the hem of his borrowed, too-large layman’s tunic beneath his fingers, stare blank and mind far, far away. 

Even without the distinctive monk’s garb giving them away, it had been of some concern that, given the Norman presence in the port city, they might be recognized anyway. The Captain had proposed they pose as father and son, two craftsmen from a small village in search of better markets for their wares. The idea had twisted unpleasantly in David’s gut, but it had merit, so he did nothing to indicate his distaste. It was Diarmuid who had rejected the idea, strangely hasty at first, then more measured, explaining that he did not think either of them were skilled enough in an artisan’s craft to convincingly support the story. 

The Captain, in his usual delicate manner, had snapped then that they couldn’t exactly pass for man and wife, now could they? His own wife- a fierce woman with gentle hands and a wicked sense of humour- had hummed in response, cocking her head and eyeing Diarmuid speculatively. She had promptly dragged him off, telling her husband and David that she and her daughters would take care of the rest. 

They had emerged over an hour later, eyes gleaming with triumph and mischief, to present to David his new wife. 

The frock was made of simple linen, dyed an unremarkable brown colour that nevertheless laid well against Diarmuid’s pale skin, softer than his usual harsh black. The bodice buttoned in the front, cinching in at the waist and flaring out at the hips in such a way that gave the suggestion of modest, but distinctly feminine curves. The skirt fell to his mid calf, revealing the curves of his muscled legs, wrapped in a slightly thicker hose than what he usually wore beneath his robes. His hair- long for monk, even a novice, but not nearly long enough to pass for a woman’s- was tucked away under a modest headscarf. 

David is unsure if they had somehow found a way to darken Diarmuid’s eyelashes so that they would stand out so markedly, fanned prettily against his cheeks. Perhaps they had also found a way to colour his lips, drawing attention to their pink, full pout. He assumes they must have- surely Diarmuid, always a fetching young man, had never looked quite like this? 

Diarmuid bore the teasing of the ladies well, good natured as always, though perhaps pinker in the cheeks than he typically might be. The disguise had worked well throughout their journey, the few times they had passed through neighbouring towns or met other travelers on the road. The boatman to whom they had paid their fare for a speedy voyage away from Ireland- set for Florence- had looked twice at Diarmuid, though not, David had registered with a fierce prickle of disapproval, in suspicion. 

Their voyage had been largely uneventful, most passengers keeping to themselves, much to David’s relief. Diarmuid, the more personable of the two, had taken to making friends among the women passengers, surprisingly at ease given that the first time he had ever met one had been only a few short weeks ago. Keeping his voice soft enough, his mannerisms demure, no one had noticed that it was perhaps deeper, his hands broader, than was typical for a young lady. 

Things fall apart, as they are wont to do, a few nights before they are set to disembark in Italy. 

He had spent much of the evening up on the upper decks, keeping an eye on Diarmuid as he leaned against the railing, eagerly watching the crashing ocean waves as they parted for the prow of the boat. Diarmuid has been, somewhat surprisingly, enthralled with every aspect of their journey- delighted with being out on the open ocean, fascinated with the daily working of a large vessel such as this one. 

David is not a fan of sailing- he never has been, not since he was a boy, and that dislike has only deepened with time and experience. The ocean has only ever once delivered him somewhere he could find some measure of peace, and he firmly believes that that was less about peace for him than it was about the protection he could provide. Aside from that, he has only ever found violence waiting for him at the end of a sea voyage. 

Diarmuid’s excitement is enough to almost calm the constant prickle of awareness, the tense anticipation of danger, that follows David, but even he has his limits. He leaves Diarmuid on the decks, nodding toward the stairs that lead into the berth- holding out a hand and shaking his head when Diarmuid, hiding his reluctance valiantly, offers to accompany him- and proceeds to spend the next hour or so sitting on their small bed- shared of course, to further support their ruse, and David’s restless nights have not entirely been due to the unease borne of being at sea- whittling a chunk of wood into what he vaguely thinks might end up being a cross, for Diarmuid to hang around his neck, perhaps. 

Diarmuid returns later, looking tired but pleased, cheeks and nose pink from the cool night air. Evenings at sea are chilly, and David realizes that Diarmuid has perhaps spent too long above deck without his cloak, as his hands struggle to unclasp the buttons on his bodice. 

David does not pause to contemplate, the desire to help reflexive. He gets up from the bed, moving toward Diarmuid, hands closing gently over Diarmuid’s clumsy ones.

His fingers are indeed freezing, and David frowns, pulling them away from Diarmuid's chest and toward himself, rubbing circles into them with his thumbs in an attempt to warm them. Diarmuid makes a soft noise, sounding as though it has caught in the back of his throat, and when David looks up from his ministrations it is to discover that Diarmuid is watching him intently, eyes roving over his face, bright with something David dares not put a name to.

David freezes, then drops his hands, moving to give Diarmuid space- not entirely certain when he stepped so close in the first place. Diarmuid makes a slight noise of distress, then catches his hands again, pausing his retreat. 

“I- I may have spent too much time above deck. My hands are a little cold- well, you saw, and I thank you for the help.”

Diarmuid bites his lip then, not looking as though he intends to. David pointedly does not stare. 

“Could you- perhaps help me with the buttons? Only they are very small, and I was having some difficulty, before.” Diarmuid smiles, a little self-deprecatingly, but the brightness in his eyes has not faded. 

David swallows, and Diarmuid’s eyes flick down to track the bobbing of his throat. 

David nods, then reaches out to begin undoing the line of buttons. He feels as though his fingers should be trembling- as though his whole body should be trembling- but they are steady as ever, working the clasps apart easily. They do brush against Diarmuid’s chest as he works, despite his best efforts- his hands are big, and the buttons are very small. 

When he is done, he pulls away- slow, reluctant- feeling a little light-headed, as though at some point during the process he has forgotten how to breathe. Diarmuid catches his hand once again. 

David looks up, meets Diarmuid’s eyes as he slowly, carefully- leaving David plenty of time to pull away for good, as though there is any circumstance in which he could- draws his hand so it is lying flat against the center of his chest, warm skin against warm skin. The two panels of the dress’ bodice are sagging slightly, pulling away from Diarmuid’s smooth skin under the force of their own weight. 

For a moment, the two simply stand there, David’s hand against Diarmuid’s chest, Diarmuid’s hand clasping his lightly. For a moment, David entertains the idea that this might stop there. 

Then Diarmuid exhales breathily, a hint of moan caught in the sound, lips molding carefully around the barest of whispers:  _ “Please _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you liked it!!! please feel free to drop me a comment below- i'd love to hear from you! 
> 
> come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/)


	6. stranger sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How is- how is this possible?" the stranger breathes out, eyes shining as they well up with tears. Trembling fingers reach out to touch David's cheek, gentle and warm. Maybe it is the surreality of the situation, or simply how unprepared for the sudden contact he is, but he can not bring himself to pull away. 
> 
> "Have we met?" he asks, voice a little more gruff than he intends it to be, in his confusion. He feels as though he would remember a face like that…
> 
> The stranger sucks in a sharp breath of air, fingers jerking back and eyes going wide in shock. His other hand loses its grip on the burlap sack and it falls, hitting the cobblestone with the slightly muffled crash of shattering glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very loose interpretation of the prompt stranger sex set in a post-canon au that is also a knight/rogue au. sort of. this is honestly way too elaborate a set up for porn but whatever. it also might be the most self indulgent thing i’ve ever written and trust me that is saying something
> 
> no warnings except for yet more ahistorical nonsense from me, and a premise that requires some suspension of disbelief. i hope you enjoy regardless.

A few days after their company arrives in Rome, David opts to spend a night wandering its streets on his own, quietly rejecting the offers of some of the other soldiers to accompany him. 

It had been a long, grueling voyage to the Papal city. He has done his best, these last six years, to keep himself out from under the Baron De Merville’s notice. Despite the fact that the man had saved his life, all those years ago, he has always given off the distinct impression of dislike, hatred lurking as deep and fathomless in his expression as his cruelty. David is sure, if it were not for the fact that he is such a skilled fighter, he would be long dead by now; if not by an enemy’s blade, then by some unholy treachery on the Baron’s part. 

A several week long journey in Raymond De Merville’s company, alongside a small convoy of trusted advisors and experienced soldiers, had not been among David’s most anticipated assignments, to say the least. But he is a soldier, and he goes where his King bids. A small retinue of the most skilled soldiers the crown had to offer had been requested by the Holy Father, and David, to his own resignation, fell into that category. And so he went, enduring the Baron’s glares and snide remarks and not-so-subtle insults with the grim levelheadnesses and lack of reaction that had earned him the nickname  _ le muet _ among the soldiers. 

Now that they are here, of course, David and the other common-born soldiers had been told to keep themselves occupied while the Baron and his retinue attended a series of closed-door discussions. Evidently it was taking some time to discover the exact purpose for their summoning- or rather, it was taking some time for the Baron to negotiate an appropriately advantageous deal with the Church to complete whatever task they wanted the Normans for. 

So David and his fellows are left to their own devices, and after several long days staying close to their quarters, David is starting to chafe at the inaction. Wandering the city helps, somewhat, but he has never been one for crowds. He prefers the country, simple work, the open air and nobody around for days. He does not get much of that, back at the castle, but sometimes he has dreams, so vivid they feel like memories, of a life spent in peace and perpetual quiet, that leaves him aching with longing for days afterward. 

One day he will retire, he thinks, and build himself something like that, a quiet life out in the wilderness. Maybe by a seaside, where he can smell the salt in the air and watch the waves crash against the shore. He thinks he would like that. 

Until then, he has nights like this, losing himself in a crowd. He travels farther and farther away from the hub of the city, into the less-polished streets where the city’s lower class abound. The streets are busier here, louder, but more relaxed as well. He’s in a simple tunic and breeches, a leather jerkin, and worn leather boots. With his weaponry limited to just a plain dagger on his belt and a hidden one in his boots, he blends in well with the folk here, and nobody pays him any mind. 

He turns a corner into a less-crowded alleyway, thinking idly about finding a tavern for a late-night meal, when he nearly runs into someone turning the corner from the opposite direction. 

They gasp, jumping back so abruptly that David is concerned for a moment they will fall. The person- a man, David can now see, from his dress- regains his footing, looks up at David, and freezes. 

David freezes too, an odd sensation of recognition overtaking him as he meets the stranger’s eyes. 

He is a young man, and attractive- perhaps the most attractive young man David has ever laid eyes on. Strong jaw, clean-shaven, fine features, wide brown eyes. A mop of wild curls, like David’s own would be if he did not keep it shorn short, as is customary for soldiers. Plain, practical clothes, a simple tunic and breeches not unlike David’s own, not quite enough to hide the impression of a lean, slim body. 

“God grant me mercy,” the stranger says. With a jolt, David realizes he is speaking Irish. A strange coincidence, to run into a native of the land where David had nearly died, on the backstreets of Rome of all places. 

“Is- is it really you?” the man asks, still in Irish, voice trembling with the force of an emotion David could not begin to put a name to. He stands, caught off-guard and frozen, as the stranger takes several hesitant steps forward, one hand coming up to hover between them. David notices for the first time that he is carrying a burlap sack in the other. 

"How is- how is this possible?" the stranger breathes out, eyes shining as they well up, inexplicably, with tears. Shaking fingers reach out to touch David's cheek, gentle and warm. Maybe it is the strangeness of the man’s intense gaze, or simply how unprepared for the sudden contact he is, but he can not bring himself to pull away. 

"Have we met?" he asks, voice a little more gruff than he intends it to be, in his confusion. He feels as though he would remember a face like that…

The stranger sucks in a sharp breath of air, fingers jerking back and eyes going wide in shock. His other hand loses its grip on the burlap sack and it falls, hitting the cobblestone with the slightly muffled crash of shattering glass. 

After a few long, interminable moments of astonished staring, the man finds his voice again. “Do- do you not know me?” 

David shakes his head, slowly. “My company travels quite extensively. If we have met somewhere before, you will have to remind me.” 

The stranger gets paler, his eyes widening more, with every word David speaks. By the time he is done, the man is shaking his head slightly, like he does not entirely mean to. 

“You… do not remember me.” It is not a question, horrified certainty weighing the words. 

David can not seem to dredge up a response. Everything feels odd, unsettled. It seems absurd to the point of conspiracy that he should meet this man, someone who seems to recognize him from before he came to be with the Normans, in the middle of the night in the streets of Rome. 

And yet, there is no question. David does not know how, or why, but he can feel it in his bones. This man  _ knows _ him. 

Somewhere in the distance, a shout rings out; the noise of revelry intensifying, as the night deepens. David startles, then looks around. He should turn back, he knows. He will have to return to his quarters soon, and wandering the streets of a strange city is dangerous even for a man such as him. 

But something inside him rejects the idea immediately. He can not bring himself to turn away from the first chance he has ever had, a chance he had never even dared to hope for, to understand who he was before the Normans rescued him. To understand what had  _ happened _ to him, all those years ago. 

The man takes a couple steps back, looking torn. Anguished. Without thinking, David darts forward, broad hand moving on its own volition to clasp lightly around the stranger’s slim wrist. 

“Please,” David says, voice low. “If you know me, I need… Please.” 

The stranger closes his eyes, briefly, then nods. He opens them again, gaze meeting David’s for only the briefest of moments, then steps aside and bends to scoop the fallen sack from the ground. He gestures down the alley with his free hand. 

“Follow me,” he says, and sets off.

*

He takes David to a traveler’s inn. 

It is not a reputable establishment, not by any stretch. Dirt floors, cracked walls, the smell of damp and rot permeating the air. But no one spares them a second glance, and the man leads David up a set of rickety stairs, unlocking a door at the end of the hallway, and ushering him into a cramped, equally worn room. 

The man walks over to the lone bed, setting his sack down on the ground, then sitting heavily. He leans forward, elbows resting on knees, and looks at David. 

For lack of anything else to do, David leans against the wall opposite the stranger, and stares back. There is an odd expression on his face, half wondering, half unbearably sad. 

“How… do you know me?” David asks, finally, when it seems as though the man is not going to break the silence. 

“What are you called?” the man returns, unheeding of David’s question. His air, however, is not one of someone deliberately ignoring him. Rather, it sounds as though he is lost in the depths of his own mind, as he examines David carefully, a faraway look in his eye. 

David frowns, confused by the odd phrasing. He is confused by all of this. “My name is David.” 

The stranger nods, slowly, as if turning that piece of information over in his head. “David. The man who struck down a giant and in doing so exposed a weak king’s unfitness to rule. I wonder whatever compelled them to give you that name.” He talks quietly, contemplative, gazing up at David from his seat on the bed as if he is not seeing him at all. 

David shakes his head. “They did not give me anything. David is my name.” It was the only thing he had remembered, waking up injured in that foreign land, surrounded by strangely hostile soldiers, for all that they had saved his life. The only thing that he had left, from that dark expanse of nothingness that stretches out in his memory, the time Before. 

That and, apparently, the absolute, unshakeable certainty that this man, somehow, in some way, is  _ important _ to him. 

And he refuses to tell David  _ why _ . 

“How is it you know me, but not my name,” David says, frustration finally leaking into his tone. 

The stranger blinks, then huffs out an aborted laugh and looks away. “You never had the occasion to give it to me,” he says, something odd in his tone. Then he looks back at David, gaze sharp. 

“You are with the Norman army, then?” he asks, abrupt. 

David nods, cautious, shoulders tensing. “Of a sort.” 

Something dark flashes through the stranger’s eyes. “The...  _ Baron _ De Merville’s retinue, then.” 

A chill rolls up David’s spine. How does this young man know that the Baron is present in the city? It could be a deduction, of course, if he knew David from before then it would make sense if he knew that David marches under the De Merville banner, and therefore would assume that David’s presence meant the Norman was here, as well... 

But there is something in his tone, his phrasing, that tells David otherwise. 

This man had  _ already _ known that De Merville was in the city, David is suddenly certain. But somehow, not that David had accompanied him. 

David closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to center himself. There is something far greater going on here than he understands, but anger and frustration will not help him unravel it. Will not help him understand what this man means to him, to his past. 

Fingers touch his cheek, and David’s eyes fly open. The stranger has risen from his seat and crossed the room, silent as a cat, to come to stand just a few paces away from David, close enough that he can feel his body heat. 

“My apologies,” he whispers. He does not remove his hand from David’s face. “Only you are so very different. And so very the same.” 

“What am I, to you?” David says, voice hushed. It feels wrong to say anything at all, to disturb this moment with anything so vulgar as words. But he has to know. 

The stranger smiles, tears shining once again in his eyes.  “You were my friend,” he says, and kisses him. 

David’s reaction is immediate, inevitable. He clutches the stranger close, deepening the kiss, coaxing his mouth to open under his lips and tongue. The man obliges, groaning into David’s mouth, and presses his smaller, lithe body against David’s. 

David clutches him close, hands sliding down his back to grip his ass, reveling in heat that rushes through him when the man rocks against him, thigh pressed against his rapidly-hardening cock. 

The man moans again, sliding his hands up into David’s hair and tugging. With a grunt, David tugs his body more firmly against himself and flips their positions, trapping the stranger’s body between his own and the wall. 

The stranger whimpers, hands tightening in David’s hair, and jumps up slightly to wrap his legs around David’s waist. David’s hands automatically slide to cup his thighs, supporting his weight entirely as he steps away from the wall. 

They land on the bed with a soft thud, a controlled fall that leaves the stranger underneath David, arching up to rub their cocks together. He gasps as David grinds down with equal force, throwing his head back against the bed, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. 

David takes the opportunity presented to him, trailing wet, sucking kisses down the stranger's neck, reaching between them as he does to unlace his breeches. 

He does not know who this man is, or how he knows David, but he knows he wants him. And David, well. David  wants as well, perhaps more than he has ever wanted before- or at least, as far as he can remember. 

So he takes. 

*

Later, arching his naked body against David’s in an attempt to pull him deeper, the stranger tugs David’s face to his own, and gasps into his mouth: “Diarmuid. My name is Diarmuid.” 

“Diarmuid,” David murmurs back, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking in time with his thrusts. Diarmuid whimpers, and writhes, the look on his face something like joy, something like sorrow. 

There are tear tracks on his cheeks. 

“Diarmuid,” David says again, and watches as he falls apart beneath him. 

*

David wakes up to the sound of someone banging on the door to Diarmuid’s room. 

_ “Piccolo monaco,” _ a woman’s voice calls, managing to sound both amused and urgent. “You manage to sleep in today, of all days? Have you no respect?”

Diarmuid groans next to David, rolling onto his back and blinking groggily at the ceiling for several long moments. He rubs a hand over his eyes, then shouts back: “I am aware of what day it is, Adaleta.” He sounds exasperated, but fond. Diarmuid props himself up on an elbow and squints at the light that shines into the room through the edges of the badly-hung shutters. 

“There is plenty of time,” he continues, lowering his voice but angling his face towards the door so whoever it is on the other side can hear him. “We are not moving until this evening, regardless.”

“Still plenty of work to be done,  _ pigro _ ,” the voice says. A pause, where David can vaguely hear someone muttering, then a gasp. “Diarmuid! Do you have a  _ man _ in there with you?” It sounds as though the woman is attempting to sound scandalized, though she lands somewhere closer to amused. 

“I will meet you  _ later _ , Adaleta,” Diarmuid says. “At  _ il santuario _ , as we had arranged.” 

“Well, you are hardly any fun at all,” Adaleta calls back, sounding mockingly affronted. A moment later, however, David hears her footsteps receding down the hallway, towards the stairs. 

He looks over at Diarmuid. 

“Adaleta, a very good friend. Mostly.” he says, with a small frown that nevertheless does nothing to hide the fondness in his eyes. “She was one of the first people I met, back when- I arrived in Rome. She introduced me to the city, prevented me from making some fairly foolish mistakes. We are planning to move our- congregation today, to a new place of worship. It has been planned for months and we are all anxious to see it go smoothly.” 

David nods. Then: “Little monk?” he says, amused at the idea. 

Diarmuid stiffens, and David raises his head to look at him fully. His smile has turned wooden, eyes tinged with something deeper than sadness, more broken. 

“In another lifetime,” Diarmuid says, after a long moment. 

He rolls out of bed, then, and David immediately misses the warmth of him, wants to pull him back to his side. Instead he watches in silence as Diarmuid pulls on his clothes, then picks up the sack he had been carrying the night before. He does not turn to leave, as David half expects. Instead he strides back over, standing at the bedside and staring down at David. 

David suddenly,  _ desperately _ , wants to beg him to stay, to  _ explain _ , but the words get caught in his throat. 

Diarmuid bends down, then, and kisses him, sweet and slow. David lifts a hand to run his fingers through his hair, and the kiss turns harder, a little more desperate. 

Diarmuid drops the sack- and hearing again the tinkle of broken glass, David hopes whatever he has been carrying is not overly valuable- clambering back onto the bed and into David’s lap. 

They stay there, trading rough, messy kisses until Diarmuid eventually pulls away, gasping. David instinctively follows, a hair's breadth away from rolling Diarmuid under him and tearing his clothes off, but manages to stop himself when he sees the look on Diarmuid’s face. 

He is crying again. 

He reaches up to sweep away the tears with his thumbs. He still feels as though he cannot speak, everything he is thinking, all the emotions roiling within him, too messy and complicated and massive for mere words. He presses his forehead to Diarmuid’s instead, hoping that he can understand him regardless. 

Diarmuid lets out a single sob, noise sounding as though it is wrenched out of him, and squeezes his eyes tight. 

They remain there, foreheads touching, bodies pressed together, for a long, weighted moment. Then Diarmuid pulls away. 

When David looks at him properly, however, his expression is not pained, or regretful, as David had half-expected. Rather, it is determined- eyes blazing, lips pressed together. 

“I have to go,” Diarmuid says, voice quiet, but fierce. “But I promise you now, I will find you. Do you understand?” 

David cannot do anything except nod. Diarmuid smiles, and leans in to kiss him again. 

“I will never leave you behind again,” Diarmuid mutters against David’s lips, quiet and reverent. 

Like a promise. Like a prayer. 

*

Many hours later, David stands among his fellow soldiers, finally receiving information about what had brought them to Rome to begin with, yet finding it difficult to rouse up an interest. It seems they have been called to assist with the hunt for an underground organization, one that is dedicated to providing shelter and aid to heretics and blasphemers. They have been gaining power for months- perhaps even years- and the Papal office had recently received information pointing them to the group’s base of operations. They needed the assistance of Baron De Merville and his soldiers in finding and executing these enemies to the faith, before they have a chance to flee to new lodgings and are lost again. 

David stands at attention, face impassive as he listens with one ear to De Merville’s address, and thinks of Diarmuid, and the promise he made. 

He has no reason to believe Diarmuid- in fact, it would be far wiser if he did not. And yet, he cannot help but be warmed, down to his core, at the memory of the look on Diarmuid’s face, the weight of sincerity in his tone. 

He still does not really know what they were to each other, how their paths have overlapped, what their history is. Nor does he know what the future holds, for him, or for Diarmuid. For them, together. 

But he does know this. He is certain. 

They will find each other again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all liked it and that it wasn't entirely confusing... 
> 
> as ever, please feel free to drop me a comment below, or come scream at me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/)


	7. corset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid in his day-to-day is generally energetic, confident, but not attention-seeking. Hell, around David at least, he practically turns shy. 
> 
> This Diarmuid is… not that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set in the nebulous timeline of my college au, after David and Diarmuid start hooking up but while they're still in the "idiots" stage of "idiots to lovers". 
> 
> all you really need to know is that David is fraternity president, Diarmuid is a pledge, and everyone around them is Very Done with the both of them.

Ciarán slides a beer across the table to him and David tips his head in thanks, eyes roving idly over the crush of bodies in the room around them. 

Mu Epsilon Theta holds a charity fashion show every year, but this is the first one David’s ever attended. He’s not much one for the party scene in general- a few, uh, glaring exceptions noted- and campus events like this are no different. But Rua is photographing the show this year, and he’d harassed everyone who had been present at the dorm as he was leaving to come along with him, blithely ignoring David’s vague grunts of protest as he’d dragged- physically dragged- him away from his thesis prep. 

David takes a sip of the beer and looks up at the stage, not really paying all that much attention. He can see why the event is so popular- pretty people of all genders wearing some of the wildest items of clothing David’s ever seen, strutting up and down the stage, hamming it up for the laughing and shouting crowd below. It’s good entertainment, if nothing else, even if it’s not David’s usual scene. 

Rua appears at his side, nudging him slightly with his elbow. "Having fun, big man?" 

David shoots him a flat look, taking another sip of his beer in lieu of answering. 

Rua smirks, then glances up at the stage as the music changes. The smirk widens into a positively wicked-looking grin. 

"Might want to pay closer attention; you might change your mind." Then he cranes his neck around to look at Ciarán across the table, where he’s nursing his own beer and watching the show with mild interest. " _ You _ might want to look away though, old man."

"What? Why-" Ciarán starts, but David isn't listening anymore, eyes fixed on the stage. 

It- it’s Diarmuid. 

They’ve done him up in some kind of long flowing dress, layers of gauzy sheer fabric built up so that his legs are mostly obscured. The top is corsetted, tugging in at his waist and exaggerating the curve of his chest, the flare of his hips. Unlike some of the other people, they’ve kept his makeup subtle- David can’t really even tell if he’s wearing any at all. A dark smudge under his eyes, maybe, something to deepen the red of his lips. 

He steps out, strong and confident, chin tilted up and just the barest hint of a smirk visible on his face. 

Diarmuid in his day-to-day is generally energetic, confident, but not attention-seeking. Hell, around David at least, he practically turns shy. 

This Diarmuid is… not that. 

Rua nudges his side. “Worth coming out, huh, big man?” 

David glares at him. 

*

Diarmuid finds them later, stumbling over to the table, cheeks flushed and hair sticking damply to his forehead. A bead of sweat catches the light just the right way as one of the slowly rotating spotlights sweeps over them. David watches it slide down his neck, over his collarbone, disappearing beneath his neckline, into the space between the two slight swells of skin artificially created by the bust of the corset. 

David wants to bury his face there. 

Instead he takes another swing of his beer, and watches as Diarmuid accepts the wolf-whistles and good-natured catcalls of the other brothers with a roll of his eyes. 

He gives Rua a playful shove. “Of course you called all of them over,” he says, exasperated. 

David shoots Rua a sharp look- he hadn’t been aware that Rua hadn’t told Diarmuid he’d be inviting them all to the show. 

“Really?” he says, frowning at Rua. “Not cool, man.”

Rua looks back at him, unbothered, and says, “Down boy, Di doesn’t mind.” 

Diarmuid looks over at David. His cheeks are redder now, but he looks pleased, if not a little flustered. “It’s fine, David. I’m glad more people were around to support the event.” Then he smiles. 

David can’t help himself- at this point, his response to that smile is automatic, reflexive. His own face softens, tension easing out of his body, just like that. 

Ciarán, watching them from across the table, drains his glass of beer and slams it down onto the table. 

“Right, that’s me done for,” he says. He reaches out a hand to ruffle Diarmuid’s hair, who ducks away with a laugh. “Nice job, Di. Never do this to me again.” 

He walks away without another word, and in short order the rest of their little group disperses with barely an attempt at a half-hearted excuse, shooting David and Diarmuid amused glances as they go. 

The next group volunteer activity is going to be doing chores for the nuns at Mount Saint Mary’s, David decides, grumpily. 

Diarmuid turns toward David, leaning against the table next to him. His eyes flicker over his face, briefly, before dipping down to where David’s hands are wrapped around his beer. 

“You mind if I have a sip of that?” Diarmuid asks. “It was pretty warm up there. I’m a little thirsty.” 

David nods, already sliding the drink Diarmuid’s way. Diarmuid smiles in thanks, then takes a long, slow sip, throat working as he drinks. When he lowers it, he meets David’s eyes where he’s frozen in his seat. 

Diarmuid sets the glass on the table, then looks down, smoothing a hand over his skirt. His dark lashes fan against the pale skin of his cheeks as he does. He licks his lips, and David can’t help the noise he makes at the sight- somewhere between a grunt and a moan, helpless, involuntary. 

Diarmuid’s eyes snap up to meet David’s. He smiles again, small and pleased and private, and tips his head towards the door. 

David nods, almost tripping over his feet as he rises from his chair. 

*

David is on Diarmuid the moment they get back to David’s room. He pushes Diarmuid back against the closed door, a little harder than he means to, but all Diarmuid does is flex his fingers into the muscles of David’s back and groan, eagerly returning his fierce, devouring kisses. 

David slides his hands down the smooth, ribbed surface of the corset, then around the back until he can grab Diarmuid firmly by his ass, pulling their hips together. The soft skirts aren’t quite see-through, but they are flimsy, and David can feel Diarmuid’s cock, already half-hard, press into his thigh. 

Diarmuid groans into his mouth, hips rutting up against David, then pulls away, panting slightly as he says, “Wait- hold on- not here.” 

David freezes, immediately moving to pull away from Diarmuid, but is stopped by his hand hooking around his neck. Diarmuid smiles, then pulls David into a slow, dirty kiss. “There’s something I want to show you,” he breathes against David’s lips, and pushes him lightly on the chest. 

The gentle touch is all the direction David needs, stepping back until his knees hit his bed and he folds down onto it, tilting his head to look up at Diarmuid where he stands above him. 

Diarmuid smiles again, but this one looks a little nervous. He steps away, then reaches behind himself to get at the clasp on his skirt. Once undone, the fabric flows easily down his legs to pool on the floor, leaving Diarmuid in nothing but the corset-top. 

Oh, and the matching set of stockings, garter belt, and silk panties he has apparently been wearing under the dress this whole time. 

David doesn’t even know how to describe the noise he makes at the sight, but he doesn’t have much of a chance to linger on figuring it out. Diarmuid is in his lap in an instant, lips hot and slick against his own, cock now fully hard and pressing into David’s abs, arms twined around his neck. 

David digs both hands into Diarmuid’s ass. The thin silk panties are hardly any barrier, Diarmuid’s skin blazing hot beneath it; David wants to tear them off with his  _ teeth. _

He dips the fingers of one hand underneath the edge of the panties, until he can brush them against Diarmuid’s hole. Diarmuid gasps and jerks, dragging his cock against the hard plane of David’s belly and biting involuntarily on his lip. 

They pull away, just enough to breathe, and David manages to gasp out, “Can I-?” 

Diarmuid nods, a little frantic.  _ “Please.” _

Diarmuid scrambles off his lap, laying back against the pillows while David stands and makes quick work of his own clothes. He grabs the lube and a condom from the drawer next to his bed, dropping them on the mattress beside him as he crawls between Diarmuid’s spread legs. 

He runs his hand up the back of one calf, enjoying the feeling of the stockings laying over smooth skin. Diarmuid squirms, ticklish, but David can see where a wet spot is already forming on the front of the panties, precome ruining the delicate silk. 

He presses a kiss to the side of Diarmuid’s knee, close-lipped and almost sweet. Then he nips, enjoying the little involuntary squeak Diarmuid lets out when he does. 

He grabs the backs of Diarmuid’s thighs, spreading those perfect legs so he can crawl between them. Diarmuid hooks one leg over David’s shoulder, sighing and squirming as David places wet, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of one thigh. 

Finally reaching Diarmuid’s groin, David mouths over his clothed erection, enjoying the way Diarmuid’s moans turn urgent, how his hands fall to David’s hair and tug at the strands, impatient. 

Then he sets his teeth to the edge of the panties and, like he’d wanted to do the moment he saw them, tears the thin fabric off of Diarmuid’s body. 

“Holy  _ shit _ ,” Diarmuid says with a gasp, arching his back. He tugs on David’s hair until he gets the message, sliding up Diarmuid’s body to hover over him, and pulls David into a kiss. 

“Come on,  _ come on _ ,” he pants into David’s mouth, as David takes advantage of the new position to grind down, rubbing their cocks together. 

David snorts. “You got somewhere to be?” he says, not quite able to hide the rough edge to his voice. He loves to tease Diarmuid when he gets impatient like this, but-  _ fuck _ , he’s impatient too. 

Diarmuid frowns, nose wrinkling in a way that makes David want to kiss it. “I  _ could _ ,” he says petulantly. “If you don’t get a move on- _ oh! _ ” 

David, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, had managed to get two fingers slicked up without Diarmuid noticing, pressing them right up against Diarmuid’s entrance. 

Diarmuid’s mouth falls open and he groans as David’s fingers slide in, easy and practiced. David smirks, curving both fingers to press right up into Diarmuid’s prostate. Diarmuid jerks and claps a hand over his mouth to muffle a cry, body clenching down on David’s fingers, cock jumping as precome collects at the tip. 

David does it again, closing a hand around Diarmuid’s cock as he does, working it tight and fast in the way he knows Diarmuid likes. It only takes a few strokes like that, and Diarmuid is shuddering, spilling into David’s hand and onto his own belly. 

David lets Diarmuid rest for a moment, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon, and takes in the sight of him. Skin flushed red, sweat collecting at his collarbones, mess of come soaking into the fabric of the corset-top. 

“Hope they didn’t want this back,” he says, nodding at the ruined top. 

Diarmuid shoots him a look, managing to look exasperated even through the post-orgasmic haze. David grins, taking the opportunity to crook the fingers he still has inside Diarmuid again, eliciting another of those cute little squeaks. 

Then he leans forward, pausing when his mouth is only a few scant inches away from Diarmuid’s, lips hovering. 

“Ready to go again?” he murmurs. Diarmuid whines, cock already hardening again between their bodies, and pulls David down into a proper kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i would love to hear your thoughts, whatever they may be. hit me up in the comments if you are so inclined! 
> 
> also, you can come hang out/scream at me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/)


End file.
